Final Fantasy Tactics: True Friendship
by Sudentor
Summary: It is nineteen years into the Fifty Years' War. Cidolfus Orlandeau, future Thunder God, is but twenty-two. He has survived battles, commanded knights, and is ready to make his mark upon the history of Ivalice. But now, fresh off battle and stuck in a tavern with far too much alcohol, he must brave a challenge beyond anything he's ever faced: Enduring a drunk Barbaneth Beoulve.


**Final Fantasy Tactics: True Friendship  
>By Kei<strong>

Cidolfus Orlandeau, courtesy-viscount and heir to House Orlandeau, had a problem.

He did not yet know it, but it would be a _recurring_ problem.

"Barbaneth, we've need to talk," Cidolfus sternly demanded.

Or he _would've_ sternly demanded, but it was difficult when your conversational partner was distracted. And, right now, with his face buried in between the ample bosom of a giggling barmaid, Barbaneth Beoulve was – in Cidolfus' approximation – _very_ distracted.

His gloved hand reaching out for the mop of long, messy blond hair, Cidolfus unceremoniously clutched Barbaneth's hair and pulled him out from in between the barmaid's breasts, hearing both a surprised gasp from Barbaneth and a _pop_ sound that was frustratingly reminiscent of a wine bottle being uncorked. "A thousand pardons," muttered Cidolfus to the mildly surprised barmaid, who looked on at the scene with amused perplexity. "He needs to breathe."

Temporarily looking a little lost and confused, it took but Barbaneth a moment to lay his gaze upon Cidolfus before he regained his bearings once more, a pleasant, jubilant smile forming on his face as he suddenly seemed to remember that he and Cidolfus – a duo of twenty-two-year-old knights of great esteem and status – were currently seated at the bar of a tavern nestled deep in the heart of the trade city of Sal Ghidos. "Ah, Cidolfus!" the Beoulve proclaimed happily. "You're still here!"

His patience and respect for Barbaneth were waning with every passing minute, but his good upbringing still managed to prevail in this instance as he diplomatically and rhetorically asked with genuine curiosity, "Where else would I be?"

"In the loving arms of a comely lass?" suggested Barbaneth.

Cidolfus made a face; while it was not as if he had never entertained the notion of a whirlwind romance with someone of the commons, he was sensitive to the unfortunate implications of such a notion. Not necessarily towards the class divide itself, but how much power he would hold as a lord over a peasant lover. "I've a mind for how unmeet it would be for…" Cidolfus began, but trailed off when he realized when Barbaneth was suddenly bending over in his seat…to try to catch an upskirt view from behind of a nearby female geomancer standing at the bar beside him, her clothes offering a generous showing of long, slender legs, and teasing those nearby – in this case, Barbaneth – with promises under that short hemline.

Sighing explosively, Cidolfus reached out again and pulled Barbaneth by the hair…_much_ less gently this time. Not that he was particularly gentle the first time, but he was strictly trying to make a point now.

"The hair!" cried out Barbaneth, trying to pry Cidolfus' fingers from his hair. "Easy on the hair!"

"Have you ever given thought of the consequences?" scolded Cidolfus in what he believed to be an entirely reasonable reaction towards the antics of his drinking partner. He still, after all, held onto the hope that Barbaneth, drunk as he may be, would understand what he himself had understood many years ago when it came to his prospects on love. "Someone of your stature and power consorting with a barmaid?"

Sadly, Barbaneth chose to interpret such physically rather than metaphorically. "Worry not," laughed the Beoulve, misunderstanding his drinking partner completely, his tone carrying the weight of personal experience. "Barmaids are very flexible, and accustomed to different sizes and applications of force."

Thirty-five years later, Ivalice would remember Barbaneth Beoulve as one of the saviors of Ivalice in the Fifty Years' War, and Cidolfus Orlandeau would reflect upon the greatest friendship in his long life. But this was not thirty-five years later, Cidolfus was not clairvoyant, and the man was not so concerned about what-ifs or what-could-be as much as he was concerned about how to do the world justice with the many ways he could drown Barbaneth in a barrel of ale right now.

Sadly, it wouldn't do to deprive Ivalice of the heir to the Beoulves, so Cidolfus had to console himself with a deep, explosive sigh. This was not how it was supposed to be. It was nineteen years into this long war with Ordallia to the east, three years since Cidolfus himself had been made a knight for true after a brief stint as but a knight-cadet. Normally, he would serve for longer as knight-in-training, but with the kingdom embroiled in a war against a foreign power several times its size, Ivalice needed every man it could get. Three years into his knighthood, however, and Cidolfus had already made a name for himself, the promising, talented young heir to House Orlandeau, a growing knight of twenty-two summers already known for cutting swathes through Ordallian lines.

He wasn't alone; Cidolfus had long heard tales of valor, stories of other young knights who were becoming promising legends against the Ordallian juggernaut. Ivalice was the underdog of the war, and King Denamda IV ensured with all his royal power that the accomplishments of his countrymen and heroes were heard across the land. But although they had never met, Cidolfus had always heard great things of the young man known as Barbaneth Beoulve, a man whose tales seemed to match what he heard of his own. There was much curiosity, for just as House Orlandeau commanded the Order of the Southern Sky, it was the Northern Sky that fell under the authority of House Beoulve. And here was a man who had seen just as many summers as Cidolfus himself.

For so long, Barbaneth had fought against the Romandans with his family, and Cidolfus the Ordallian with his, so fortune never smiled upon the possibility of their meeting. That changed when the Romandans retreated – hearsay spoke of an outbreak of the Black Death in the country across the Rhana Strait – and suddenly Northern Sky reinforcements were marching in from Lesalia and Gallione. For months, the knight orders of Ivalice sought to push back the Ordallians where they occupied parts of Zeltennia and Limberry. And, finally, after days of long fighting, a collection of Ivalician knights from Skies Northern and Southern expelled Ordallian forces from the easternmost city of Sal Ghidos. It was in the midst of this battle that a squad of Northern Sky knights met its counterpart amongst the Southern…two squads commanded respectively by Barbaneth Beoulve and Cidolfus Orlandeau.

The two had hit off instantly; both were supremely skilled swordsmen and master tacticians, and led their squads with unrelenting courage. And when they achieved a hard-fought victory in the city, Cidolfus was certain that this was the Barbaneth Beoulve all the tales have spoken of, his peer on the other side of the kingdom, a young man who promised to be one of the most glorious knights Ivalice has ever seen. And to his initial delight, it certainly seemed as if Barbaneth believed the very same.

The first time Cidolfus felt any doubt was when Barbaneth suggested that they take their squads to celebrate at a tavern, an idea that the former frankly felt was rather premature. A victory over the Ordallians their battle might've been, but their casualties had been costly, much of the city had been damaged, and the wounded and dead have yet to be moved from the streets. But a great cheer had risen from both squads when Barbaneth announced it aloud, and Cidolfus ultimately relented. Their men had just risked life and limb to save the city. Perhaps giving them a night to celebrate would put ease to their fatigue.

The doubt and worry started growing when they reached the tavern, and the discrepancies between the discipline of the two squads made themselves apparent. The Northern Sky knights quickly made themselves comfortable with alcohol and women alike, and while the Southern Sky knights – having previously been kept in line by Cidolfus' unwavering sense of discipline and honor – had been reluctant to join their more rambunctious compatriots, repeated calls to join in the fun and the infectious mood soon eroded their sense of self-control, and soon the Southern Sky knights, too, were laughing uproariously and drinking deeply from more mugs Cidolfus had ever seen at a single table.

The result: Cidolfus' knights louder, rowdier, drunker, and more lecherous than he had ever before seen; the Northern Sky making merry with far too many young barmaids; Barbaneth getting close to the definition of "roaring drunk"; and Cidolfus wondering if he was going to forever rue this night.

"You are drunk," Cidolfus declared tiredly, somewhat in hopes that Barbaneth would have enough self-awareness to realize what that entailed, but mostly for Cidolfus' own benefit as he felt reality as he knew it shattering around him.

"And you are sober," Barbaneth uttered with equal solemnness, "a great travesty." He waved at the man behind the bar, called out, "Bartender, another mug of ale for this fine gentleman!"

"Well, mayhap I am sober to ensure you do nothing as crass as fondling every barmaid that comes within arm's reach!" countered the Orlandeau hotly even as the bartender moved to fetch another mug for him.

"Worry not, Cidolfus," said Barbaneth, patting Cidolfus' shoulder reassuringly, as if trying to tell the latter that the former certainly isn't going to do anything foolish. "It is not my intent to ride upon chocobos while drunk. Bloody irresponsible, that would be. Imagine how many might be hurt by a drunken race down the Street of Sisters!" But if Barbaneth stood any chance of scoring any points of respect with Cidolfus, he ruined it almost immediately as he added, his gaze already lecherously wandering the tavern, "Now, riding upon a lovely _wench_…"

It was not as if Cidolfus was interested, much less _jealous_, but he did wonder precisely _what_ women saw in this man. He had never actually tried for anyone's affections – he had always considered his path to knighthood far more important – but Cidolfus always thought that the women of Ivalice had enough self-respect to ensure that they weren't degraded to mere targets of lust. Yet quite a few of the women had been very…_permissive_ when it came to Barbaneth, and Cidolfus suspected it didn't have to do with _just_ the Beoulve's noble status. It was true that Barbaneth was very much a handsome man, tall and fierce and with hair recently loosed from a ponytail, worn in such a haphazard way that seemed to scream "I'm dangerously bad news but you shall enjoy yourself with me this wild night nonetheless"…

…Alright, perhaps he _did_ know what women see in this man. Not that Cidolfus had to _like_ it.

Barbaneth's discourse on wenches stopped just for a bit even as he stared at a particularly pretty barmaid putting up with the knights – although admittedly not without some cheer – giving way to a dazed thoughtfulness that Cidolfus was not sure he'd appreciate. "I should get Dycedarg one for his birthday," he suddenly remarked.

Cidolfus stared, somehow disbelieving yet certain that Barbaneth was referring to either barmaids or whores. "…He's three summers old," said he of Barbaneth's only son, even as the bartender returned with another mug of ale for the Orlandeau.

"He is," agreed Barbaneth, "a growing lad now." Another dreadful thoughtful pause. "Do you think he'll still appreciate large bosoms as much as when he was a babe?"

Cidolfus was becoming dangerously alarmed by Barbaneth's capability at being a father, and seriously fearful for Dycedarg's childhood.

A great cheer suddenly came up from the knights at the tables commandeered by their squads, and Cidolfus turned back with mounting fatigue, noticing that one of the knights had suddenly produced a lyre, and the men of the Northern Sky were suddenly breaking into song, singing lyrics he was not familiar with, but which left him utterly bewildered and flabbergast:

"_Gariland maids know magick  
>So it's like screwing a powder keg<br>Whores in Dorter are shrill and shrewd  
>And will charge an arm and leg<em>

"_Girls in Gollund are filthy  
>Covered from head to toe in ash<br>Lesalians put on perfume  
>So they need not take a bath<em>

"_If they feed you a length of iron  
>You're bedding an Eagrose lass<br>They suit the needs of any and all  
>Whenever they change class<em>

"_And Bervenia's wenches  
>All drink venom from their well<br>Saint Ajora said so  
>As far as we can tell<em>

"_Goug girls all want big machines  
>That vibrate under their dress<br>Nothing's flatter than Yardrow's walls  
>Save for their maidens' chests<em>

"_And for the record, Warjilis whores  
>All that sea-salt makes you fat<br>Zaland's maids are proud and vain  
>And Limberry…where's that?<em>

"_But lasses here are feisty  
>No breasts grander than those<br>All your dreams and then some more  
>Here in Sal Ghidos!<em>

"_If you want a comely woman  
>And the gentlest of girls<br>Look no further for you have arrived  
>Here in Sal Ghidos!<em>"

With a raised eyebrow that twitched uncontrollably and threatened to soar off beyond his hairline and into the sky, Cidolfus turned cautiously towards Barbaneth, who was – to the former's dismay – not at all surprised. "…Your knights have written a drinking song about the women of Ivalice," he observed blankly.

"I would think 'write' an overstatement, in this case," Barbaneth quipped. Or hiccupped; in his drunk state, it was a little hard to tell.

"Your men are nobles," Cidolfus pointed out, confused as to why the knights would not have written anything, "they are not illiterate."

"They are not," agreed Barbaneth.

It took a moment for the Orlandeau to be astounded by the fact that Barbaneth – in his state – could still word-lawyer. More astounding was the insinuation the Beoulve carried. "Do you mean to say that they all spontaneously conjured the same lyrics for the same song at the same time," he said slowly, devoid of emphasis for any particular word, "and started singing about it?"

Cheerfully, Barbaneth slapped Cidolfus on the back with much more force than necessary, wrapping his arm around the latter's shoulders in the process in a happy man-hug. "Oftimes in love and war, my dear Cidolfus," declared the Beoulve, "men find much common ground. Generally in the former." He hiccupped once more. "Great minds think alike."

Looking at Barbaneth incredulously – and finding his face a little too close and his breath a little too contaminated with the stench of alcohol – Cidolfus, more as a hopeful declaration than a query of confirmation, uttered, "You're joking."

Barbaneth just smiled.

"You're joking," Cidolfus repeated, this time with a conceited laugh of self-assurance as he brushed Barbaneth's arm off his shoulders, content in the knowledge that no one was as perverted as Barbaneth thought they were. "Someone wrote out that song beforehand. In no fevered dream could all of you have sung the same exact song without having worked it out first, no matter how like-minded you are."

With all the normalcy and grace of a Beoulve – which Cidolfus was suspecting to not be much at this point – Barbaneth merely called out to the man on the other side of the bar, "Bartender, another mug, please."

"Please tell me you're joking," Cidolfus mewled piteously.

Sadly, his pleas for pity fell upon deaf ears, largely because Barbaneth's capacity for processing sensory input was already being overwhelmed by what he suspected to be the most shapely buttocks he had ever seen upon a passing woman, and his hand reached out for a feel…an endeavor that was tersely interrupted as a sharp pain coursed through his scalp, courtesy of Cidolfus pulling him back by the hair once more.

"Would you stop that?" complained Barbaneth, clutching at his head, glaring pathetically at Cidolfus.

Cidolfus, however, had just about enough. "What is _wrong_ with you, Barbaneth?" he demanded.

"What's wrong with _you_?" Barbaneth shot back, certain that he had the better claim to the same question; after all, _he_ was the one with the hair being pulled on once every minute or something.

"I thought you to be a knight!" scowled the more upright of the pair.

"And I thought you to be a man!" countered the more adventurous. "Are you a eunuch?"

Usually, bashing Barbaneth's head in would be considered an entirely proper and appropriate response. Cidolfus, however, was a bit too flabbergast to do anything but silently stare as his brain tried to reconnect with logic.

Sadly, the nuances of body language often escaped a drunk man, and Barbaneth took Cidolfus' silence for something else entirely. The Beoulve, too, went slack-jawed for a moment in seeming shock before suddenly looking very awkward and very embarrassed. "I mean," he quickly amended, "it's no harm if you are, I'm not judging. It's not my place for me to, um, consider someone harshly for, well, not being…" he waved a hand in the air as he tried to find the right words to give voice to his thoughts, oblivious to Cidolfus working his jaw up and down in uncomprehending disbelief, "…endowed with certain natural gifts. But it'd go a long way for me to understand your, um. Situation." He gave the Orlandeau scion a sad, solemn nod. "It is never a joking matter when a noble line is in, ah…imminent peril."

It was at this time that Cidolfus finally regained his capabilities of speech in the face of what he considered to be rampant stupidity. "I am _not_ a eunuch!" he declared, oblivious to the very confused expressions of his own knights who heard that and turned to watch.

And, as if a switch had been flipped, Barbaneth suddenly went from sad and solemn to cheerful and tipsy in a split-second. "Alright, then," he beamed, "problem solved!"

"There was no- _We haven't solved any problems!_" Cidolfus was getting close to tearing his hair out. "_There was not a problem to begin with!_"

Setting his mug of ale down on the bar, Barbaneth turned to look at his newfound friend seriously. It would've admittedly looked a lot more serious if his face wasn't red and ruddy and slack from the alcohol. "Alright, now look here, Cid," he declared, paused, then asked, almost whimsically, "Can I call you that? Cid?"

"Whatever you please," muttered the courtesy-viscount, deciding he was going to ignore the Beoulve from now on, turning in his seat so he could rest both of his elbows on the bar, drink his ale, and not have to look at the Beoulve, which was what he was going to refer to the man as from now on. "The Beoulve". A properly terse name for a man who did not need to be addressed in any other manner.

"Right, Cid," said "the Beoulve", clapping his hands together once for emphasis. "Here's what we're to do. You are to kiss a barmaid here before we leave this bar."

Cidolfus couldn't help but stare at Barbaneth some more. "What."

"Preferably tongue-to-tongue. But the lips are fine too."

"No," declared Cidolfus flatly as he turned exasperatedly back to his drink.

"A peck on the cheek is tolerable," said Barbaneth in a resigned, exasperated manner that suggested he was making a huge compromise, "if you truly wish to be a pansy about it."

"This discussion is over."

"I'm quite serious, Cid, this is rather important."

"I am _not_ going to kiss a random barmaid."

"We're not quitting this tavern until you do."

"That's very nice." At this point, Cidolfus was trying his darnedest to take Barbaneth anything _but_ seriously.

The Beoulve, however, did seem to pick up on that, and he broke into a grin as he leaned in towards Cidolfus, started humming in his ear: "_But the lasses here are feisty, no breasts grander than those…_"

"Oh, _grow up_," the Orlandeau muttered, rolling his eyes and pushing – without much avail – his drinking partner away. "I thought you to be a Beoulve."

"_All your dreams and then some more, here in Sal Ghidos!_"

Cidolfus made it a point to take another sip at his mug of ale, remaining silent and trying very hard to pretend Barbaneth Beoulve – the man whom he once thought was a worthy, honorable knight such as himself – was simply not _there_, and that he heard naught of that annoying singing beside his ear.

Sadly, Barbaneth was not so accommodating, and his lips continued to hover beside Cidolfus' ear, indulging in that little sing-song of his: "_If you want a comely woman…_"

"Should I kiss a barmaid," sighed Cidolfus explosively, reaching the end of his patience as he slammed his mug against the bar, looking at Barbaneth with clear irritation, "will you kindly still your tongue and leave me to drink in peace?"

Although he did not speak, Barbaneth favored Cidolfus with a wide, impish grin as he nodded with boyish enthusiasm.

Sighing again – this was fast becoming a regular occurrence – Cidolfus reluctantly swiveled in his seat to seek out a passing barmaid, and finally found his chance to be rid of Barbaneth's pestering when a young barmaid passed close enough to him. "A thousand pardons, young miss," said the Orlandeau apologetically with all the politeness and humility he could muster in the face of what he was beginning to consider as "impossible circumstances", "but would you be kind enough to indulge a kiss of mine upon your cheek?"

Cidolfus clearly believed that he was imposing, but the humble young man underestimated his own charisma and dashing good looks, which were certainly not inferior to Barbaneth's own. Though the Beoulve may be enticing in that wicked, rebellious way, the Orlandeau's chivalric behavior caught the barmaid off-guard, and she smiled bashfully as she leaned in, allowing Cidolfus to hesitantly land a gentle peck upon her cheek. The look he gave her was apologetic as he muttered words of gratitude, and as the girl giggled giddily away, Cidolfus turned to glare at Barbaneth, only to discover that the Beoulve now carried upon his expression a look of stunned shock, his jaw hanging slightly agape as he looked like he had just seen a miracle happen before his eyes.

"Blessed Ajora, Cidolfus," whispered Barbaneth breathlessly, as if he had just been witness to the second coming of Saint Ajora. "You've become a _man_."

Cidolfus did not try to stop his eyes from rolling. _And there he goes again, all pompous and…are those _tears_ in his eyes?_

"This is cause for celebration!" crowed Barbaneth explosively with unrestrained jubilance. "A wondrous occasion to tell generations of Orlandeaus to come!" He turned once more to the bartender, called out, "Bartender! Another mug of ale for my friend!"

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Cidolfus turned away from Barbaneth and instead looked to his knights, all of whom were getting increasingly drunk and – alongside the knights of the Northern Sky – were making merry with the women in ways he would never have imagined his own knights to indulge in. If he had any more energy left, he would've entertained a mental sneer in his head. _And here are the men of the noble, right honorable Order of the Northern Sky_, thought Cidolfus, his impression of his family's rival order in tatters.

But still, as he took another careful look, Cidolfus observed that – for all the lewd and perverted and rambunctious ruckuses that the knights were stirring up – there were no results he could not tolerate from the entire mess. Nothing was being broken despite the drunkenness, and no fights were breaking out from the stupor. And despite the presence of so many wandering hands, the knights seemed to do nothing that the girls of the tavern could not accept, the members of the fairer sex also laughing and making merry and looking like they were having fun from the entire thing.

_And to think these men are supposed to be drunk_, mused Cidolfus thoughtfully. He had seen what happened to civilian populations when the Ordallians took over, how chaos had ruled the streets, the women subjected to the whims of foreign cruelty and subjugation. Conquering armies often morally fared much worse, even when said armies came as liberators instead of conquerors. If this night was the Northern Sky at their worst, if this night was an indicator of the discipline by which Barbaneth Beoulve ran his knight order…well, maybe – just _maybe_ – what he saw was not so bad after all.

And Cidolfus was of mind to concede such to Barbaneth aloud – and perhaps even include an apology for being so hard upon him while the Orlandeau was at it – except the moment he turned back around to face the Beoulve, Barbaneth was already flagging down a buxom barmaid, happily declaring, "Come, lass! I suspect I could cup those breasts with but a hand, but if I must use two, by the gods, you _are_ a true woman of Sal Ghi-"

There was a great loud _thunk_ sound that came from the bar, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground. Knight and barmaid alike fell silent and turned to look around in surprise and wonderment at what could've possibly made the sound. But although Cidolfus was the closest to its source – seated at the bar beside a now-empty chair, paying no mind to the unconscious, crumpled form of Barbaneth at his feet – the man showed no hint of knowing what could've _possibly_ happened to generate such a sound, content only that – for the first time since he walked into this tavern – he was finally drinking his ale in peace.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Poor Barbaneth. He canonically beds one commoner woman – _one_ – and suddenly fanfiction writers everywhere portray him as a Casanova with a bosom always within arm's reach. Or face's reach, apparently.

I swear, this is character assassination. Character assassination, I say.

…Wait, aren't I contributing to this?


End file.
